


Standing solo in the sun

by Kathleenishereagain



Series: On our way back home [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Sexism, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29979849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathleenishereagain/pseuds/Kathleenishereagain
Summary: It was stupid. It was all so damn stupid, but it was not like he had ever had a choice about it.Paul was the sun, and John would be damned if he didn’t get burnt trying to get closer.---During the events of On our way back home, John is trying his best to keep up with Paul's travelling back in time, his feelings and his own future.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: On our way back home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205165
Comments: 59
Kudos: 99





	1. Right before chapter 1 of oowbh

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait until I had more chapters ready, but... screw it!  
> I hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> And remember you can come say hi on my tumblr @purechocolade at anytime!  
> ❤️

One thing John had learned early on in his tumultuous life was that there were several Paul McCartneys; and some of them were downright pricks. 

The one that was currently glaring at him barefoot, in his pyjamas and with an oddly sleepy look on his face from across the hallway of the hotel was definitely up in the top three most unpleasant ones. If not the winner. Brian and the hotel attendant who were still (poor beings) separating them sure seemed to be on the front row of a particularly uncomfortable show.

“Oh, look who’s honouring us of his precious presence,” John couldn’t help but snort on his way when he spotted Paul coming out of his and Ringo’s room. “The majesty himself, already dressed down to his night gown like an 80-year-old librarian.”

Paul remained silent, just glaring harder at him if possible, and turned around to go towards his own (and George’s room) a bit further down.

“I hope you didn’t forget to take your precious _work instrument_ with you!” John couldn’t help but snarl to Paul’s retreating back, sinisterly hoping to rile him up even more.

He could vaguely feel Brian next to him, insistently pulling on his sleeve to guide him to the lifts. 

“John, let’s go to the lobby and cool off a bit, yeah?” Brian softly said. “Let it go.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m letting go alright. Gotta be the bigger man and all.”

But Paul abruptly turned around and John’s plan came to fruition.

“Fuck you, John,” Quickly came out, the death glare accompanying it more glorious than any John had ever received.

“Yeah, fuck me for not acting all high and mighty with everyone! Fuck me for having a laugh!”

“John, stop,” Brian’s voice softly but firmly supplied. “Don’t make a scene.”

John’s blood turned in his veins all at once and his head snapped to his manager.

“ _I’m_ making a scene?!”

With the way his own voice had gone so high-pitched, he felt the need to clear his throat to chase the embarrassment away. He hated having everyone seeing him losing his wit like that – despite apparent popular belief – but his anger and irritation were still too strong to be drowned out by his own shame. Even worse, Paul didn’t seem to care about answering anymore and was just stomping away at the other end of the ridiculous flower-walled hallway. As he was glaring at his back, John suddenly noticed that his steps were not so assured, almost sluggish, as if…

“Are you fucking drunk?!” John nearly roared at the realisation.

If anything, Paul’s reflexes when he turned around were contesting that statement.

“I’m just exhausted you bloody moron! Now leave me alone and go fuck yourself!”

With one last middle finger as goodbye, Paul opened the door of his bedroom, entered it and slammed the door. 

Well. The prank could have admittedly gone better.

It had started in good camaraderie, though. The concert had been good – unbearably loud, but without any notable incident – and their spirits were high. John felt on fire, even more energized than usual by their performance. His and Paul’s. George and Ringo had been good too, sure, but that night they were irrelevant. He had been galloping on a tightrope up in the clouds and Paul had been right there next to him the whole time, responding to every shout, every pun, every look. John loved that feeling, of being closer to him than anyone else; of having Paul’s attention so closely and solely focused on him. It was rare – Paul was a sociable animal, always aiming to please the crowd, to make everyone feel included. ‘Give them all the good time they paid too much for’, he would say. But John was greedy and perverted. He loved when Paul’s façade cracked, when his carefully constructed display was askew. And that night, his whole body had been tilted towards John for the whole duration of the show. Devoted. That kind of behaviour from him was intoxicating, and John was elated. Nothing could touch him or them. Paul was his.

But of course, as always with his stupid fucking mind, John had ruined everything. He was high, so high from it all, that he had pushed his luck into playing a prank on his bandmate (friend… partner! No word seemed enough). When Paul went a quick wee, he beelined straight for their guitars left in the emptied backroom, tape roll that he had snitched from an unknown roadie (if he had known John, he probably wouldn’t have left him get away with it) safely hidden in his pocket. The blessed instrument had annoyed Paul a while during a couple of songs because his fingers were too sweaty and made it too slippery, so John used the perfect occasion to stick tape all over the bass and into its sound hole. He was overly proud of his feat, so much that there was no reason after to hide and risk missing Paul’s face when he would see it. He knew the man better than himself: even though it was literally Mal and Neil’s role to carry their instruments, and that the four of them were just supposed to carry themselves in the car, Paul would come back to the backroom to personally check one last time that his Höfner was alright. Being so predictable only made it easier – and more tempting, damn! – for John to trap him.

Even if his excitement made it hard to stay in place, the moment of truth came sooner than he expected. Paul finally arrived, still rubbing his hands together (probably to dry them off completely) and with an intensely thoughtful look on his face. He responded to John’s military salute with an absent “hi” and went straight to the case of his bass. John followed him, hands clasped together in his back, his lips pinched in anticipation. He turned around the case to have a good visual on Paul’s face as the other man was opening the case and then. Then.

For the longest time, Paul just froze. John struggled to stay still, bending a little to get a good look of his expression, but the blankness he found there was a little underwhelming. All that effort for a vaguely annoyed frown?!

“It won’t slip no more,” John said in a sing-songy voice. 

He hated himself for letting that out – Paul knew the reference, knew the inside joke. _Of course he does, idiot. He was there._

His words had the advantage of prompting Paul into moving though: he looked up to him with wide eyes and a slightly hanging jaw. John grinned, because, _victory_ : a reaction! But ever so slowly, and a bit frighteningly to be honest, Paul’s closed his mouth without saying a word. When his frown hardened and his jaw visibly tensed, John was starting to get a bit worried. He was about to call Paul out on his uptight-ness when Paul looked back to the case, started tearing the tape away and finally spoke. Or rather, spat out in a dismissive but calm whisper:

“You’re so fucking _annoying_.”

John froze, stunned. That tone, the obvious scorn in it – that was not something he was used from getting from Paul. From anyone…—but not from Paul. Not _him_. His surprise quickly led way to anger. Shame always burned the hottest in him.

“It’s just tape, you fucker. No need to get on your high horse.” 

He was annoyed at the sadness he could hear sneaking into his words – he was sure it was plain on his face too, incapable of keeping his emotions away as he was – but he still glared as hard as he could at Paul’s profile.

“You never take anything seriously!” Paul erupted as he was getting up in a flash, his burst of rage as brutal as unexpected. “This is my work instrument, you can’t just ruin it because you feel like it! You can’t just—just do things like that!”

The hurt pushed John off his tightrope, making him crash at Paul’s feet. No. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen between them. The snort that escaped him sounded painfully forced to his own ears.

“Who got your knickers in a—”

But in two steps Paul was up in his face, pulling on his collar. John stumbled, completely taken aback. They had had their fair share of fights over the years, but they had never got physical with each other. The sudden possibility that this certainty might change terrified John more than the eventual punch itself. 

“You can’t fucking—” Paul started in a rush, his breath tickling John’s mouth.

However, as quick as it had come, Paul snapped awake: he stopped talking and loosened his fist on John’s collar to let him go, as if he was at once shocked at his own behaviour. John found himself anchorless, staggering like an idiot for a floating second. He was so bewildered that no matter how hard he wanted to _understand_ , words failed him. Paul was glaring at him, a few centimetres from his face. It took a couple of seconds for John to discern the fear hidden under his palpable (and frankly uncalled for) fury. Neither of them moved for a moment; even if he had wanted to, John would have been unable. Paul’s stare was keeping him frozen on the spot by its intensity and by the confusion of feelings… what was that? What _was_ he angry at? John opened his mouth to ask about it and Paul’s eyes flickered to his lips for the briefest, hottest of second. Then, just as fast as he had arrived, Paul stepped away and turned back to his bass.

“Just… leave me alone. Go bother someone else.”

The return of the disdain in his voice prompted John back to life and anger came back in him, although watered down by his shock. Feeling the shame that was starting to burn on his neck and cheeks, he scoffed and stomped towards the door. He couldn’t help but stop at the entrance to send a last glare at what was supposed to be his best friend.

“Don’t worry. Got it. I won’t _bother_ you again.”

Had he known that a little less than three hours later Paul would faint on him in a lift, maybe he would have bothered him a little more.


	2. During chapter 5 of oowbh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your enthusiasm about this series!!! :') I was a bit worried just a few people would care, so I'm glad to be proven kind of wrong :'))  
> Also, just a note, but since these are just specific passages, all the chapters should be rather on the short side!  
> Also bis, quick question: should I title the chapters to say when approximatively they take place during oowbh, to make it easier if some of you want to re-read said moments?

No matter how many times he repeated to himself that there was no reason to be nervous, it seemed like his nerve centre did not give a shit about that and decided to make him apprehensive as hell anyway.

As he was driving (alone! On such a long distance! For that alone he deserved a medal for being the bestest friend ever) to Liverpool, his hands were getting clammier by the hour and his eyes, already tired from getting up so early, were a bit glassier than strictly safe. Thankfully the road was straight, boring and not very busy, because his attention was seriously diminishing as doubts about what he was doing were rising. When he saw the board that announced the exit of the M6, he turned on his indicator to get into the line. Hopefully Paul wasn’t too sick. Ever since Cardiff, the lad had been increasingly weird: he didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t say anything. He had spent the whole flight back to London looking at all of them with wide, baby fish-like eyes, as if he was stuck in a trance and couldn’t quite see them. And that was counting without how fucking rude he had repeatedly been whenever someone (read, John himself) was trying to help him. Although he had assured John at first that he was alright, it was easy to see right through the bullshit: there was something really fucking wrong. Just the fact that he would go hide at his dad’s was—

A horn suddenly blaring made him jump and violently stomp the brake. His car came to an abrupt stop just when a gigantic truck came in right front of him, honking like crazy and coming out of literally nowhere. John stayed a few seconds frozen on his seat, his cold hands stuck to the wheel and his heart beating loud enough to jump out of his ears. What the fuck?! When his shock started to subside, he at once realized that he was still very much on the freeway, even though he was engaged on the exit and a glance in the rear back mirror told him there were no cars coming behind him yet. Feeling a bit shaky still, he pulled his scarf off of his neck, started the car again (the engine stalled the first time, but he dared anyone to blame him for that) and sheepishly went on his way. At least, even if Paul still didn’t want to talk, they’d have his near-death experience to talk about.

When he finally parked in front of Paul’s dad’s house, it took him a while to gather the courage to actually _get out_ of the car. He couldn’t quite tell where his apprehension was coming from. Paul was his mate, assuredly his best one, and they had never suffered from awkwardness between them, even when they first met or when they were fighting. And yet… something about Paul’s shifty eyes when they had said goodbye at the train station did not sit right with him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it really was personal, and that it was with John himself that Paul had a problem. Seeing the big fight they had had just before Paul went and bumped his head in the lift, and how Paul had not even tried to patch things up since (something that was decidedly _not_ normal Paul behaviour), he did not think it was paranoid of him to think that. Maybe Paul was finally through with him. Maybe he was finally seeing John for what he was: a joke, a prankster whose mouth was bigger than the talent. Maybe Paul too was done with him and now wanted to find someone better, someone prettier and shinier to play with.

He slowly walked up the gravel leading to the house, willing his heart to calm the fuck down. He very much felt like a kid about to get turned down by his date. Or like a dog who disobeyed and was about to be sent back to the shop. However, if Paul was indeed just sick, he needed a friend. And if anything, John could be that for him.

He breathed deeply, arranged the scarf back around his neck, took off his glasses and slipped them in his pocket, and then, rang the bell.

Paul McCartney was a fucking arsehole.

As he stormed out of the house, John was fuming. He could handle knobheads taking him for a fool, but not to be ridiculed and humiliated like that. He had been trying so hard to be nice and understanding, even to cheer him up a little, and that was how he was thanked.

‘ _I didn’t ask you to come’_.

Paul’s words kept looping in his head. Here he was, making the effort the come see his arsehole friend to make sure he was okay, and all said friend had to answer to that was ‘ _I didn’t ask you to come’_. Well, nobody ever asked him to come, did they? People asked him to leave. Again, and again, and again. He was a nuisance to everyone, and the last one who hadn’t made him feel that way yet was Paul. Oh, the irony! He couldn’t say that anymore. He was so stupid. And he even had given him one of his favourite shirts, for fuck’s sake. Just as he was about to start the car though, he froze. If he left, it meant Paul won. If he left, knowing himself, he wouldn’t have the courage (some would say ego, but those were liars) to back down and let Paul apologize when he would – would he? – come crawling back to him. If he left, maybe things would be broken for real between them. Following an instinct, he opened the door and got out again, but found himself hovering around the car. What was he thinking?! Paul’s message was clear. He wanted nothing to do with him. ‘ _I didn’t ask you to come’_.

With one last hurt look to the house, John angrily got back into the car, pushed his fucking glasses back on his nose and drove away. Fuck Paul. He didn’t need him anyway.


End file.
